


the only empire I will ever build

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Future Fic, Oral Sex, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I may not have been a Lannister for long,” she says, her deft fingers already unlacing the placket of his breeches and slipping inside to steal his breath, “but I have nonetheless learned to always pay my debts.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only empire I will ever build

It has been so very long. That’s how it seems to Jon, though in truth it’s been only a handful of moons, not even half a year since he saw Sansa last. Since he kissed her and touched her and spilled within her, since he tasted her everywhere, and swore when he left to go back to the Night’s Watch that he’d never do such things again, that he’d never even _want_ them. That he would keep to his honor for _once_ over a woman.

As he’s found with most things he’s sworn upon, it’s a fool’s errand.

She is beautiful here in the North. She’s beautiful everywhere, but it stands out so perfectly here, as if she’s a ruby set among diamonds. The weather has been fickle, a meltingly warm afternoon followed by a howling cold night wind that freezes everything into faintly colored crystals. She bundles herself in furs good-naturedly, until only her eyes and nose peek out, but still she cannot seem to contain her hair. It escapes her hood in long tendrils that seem to curl towards Jon in a way no less than beckoning.

He’d received her somewhat less than graciously. It’s only that he’d never expected to see her here, beyond the Wall; Sansa belongs in Winterfell in Jon’s mind, always, no matter that she spent her girlhood somewhere else before finally coming home less than two years ago. To come upon her encamped a day’s ride north of the wall with a small coterie of men as he returned with his own men from a ranging – one of the many he’s taken in an effort to prove to himself that the Others are well and truly gone – was the keenest sort of shock, and he’d reacted bluntly.

“What are you doing here?” he’d fairly demanded, dumbfounded, before saying hello or even dismounting, instead looking down upon her from the saddle, drinking the sight of her in even as his mind reeled with shock. _Gods, but I want her with as much fire as ever,_ he thought miserably.

“Is that any way to greet family?” she’d replied mildly, gesturing to Rickon in the background who was rolling about on the snowy ground with Shaggy and Ghost as if they’d never been apart.

“Sansa,” he warned. “Why are you here?”

“Come to see you, of course,” she’d said with a brilliant smile, one that touched him in places he’d thought were hardened and scarred over.

They’ve been camped for two days, the combined tents of Jon’s men and Winterfell’s filling the clearing and scattering through the trees. Two days of torture, it’s seemed. A torture that Jon can’t seem to get enough of, as he’s spent every possible moment with her. Every motion she makes, every word she says, reminds Jon of the time he’d spent with her in Winterfell, those long, dark days before Rickon returned when they’d believed themselves all that was left of their family. They’d taken solace in each other and rediscovered some measure of the joy that had seemed so lost to them. It had been intoxicating. Had Rickon not returned, Jon isn’t sure he wouldn’t have fallen into her like an abyss, forsaking his renewed vows and making mockery of all he believed for another touch, another kiss, another night spent in her bed and in her arms, her every sigh piercing him far more deeply than the blades of his brothers had.

“Jon?” Her voice breaks him out of his reverie; with a jolt of shame he realizes he was staring at her, drinking in the sight of her as if bewitched. He remembers her turning her face up to his to be kissed, her clinging sweetness each time he came to her room after dark, the sweet taste of her mouth and the sweeter tang of her cunt. “You looked leagues away.” 

“Months away,” he corrects, knowing even as he says it that he shouldn’t. She does not mistake his meaning; her lips part with the force of her inhalation, the fur at her throat trembling with every breath.

“Jon-”

“It’s near nightfall,” he speaks over her, his tone more brusque than he intended. He cannot afford to know that she longs for him as well. Not now, when she’s so close. “We should retire. Tonight promises to be far colder than it was last night.”

“I’ll make sure to bundle up,” she says, her tone wry. Jon can’t help but smile. For as sweet as she is, she’s still capable of tartness at times.

Sleep comes fitfully. Jon can hear the whistle of the wind; it will soon become a howl, he knows, the sort of night the North is famous for, the sort of night that could freeze an unprotected man in his tracks. A brazier of coals in Jon’s tent – not to mention the great, snoring bulk of Ghost – keeps the worst bite of the cold away, but he’ll still need every one of the furs before morrow.

At first, he thinks it only the wind that makes such sounds at the entrance of his tent, or a bramble blown from a tree to scratch at his door. It isn’t until he sees Sansa unfurling herself from the low entrance, her hair glinting red and gold in the light from the brazier, that he realizes what’s occurring. He throws back the furs and scrambles to his feet, some strange formality finding a footing in the absence of comprehension. He certainly has no idea what to say. His tongue seems alien in his mouth, entirely incapable of speech.

“I snuck past your men,” she says with no preamble. “No one knows I’m here.” Jon blinks in surprise. Of all the things she could have said, that wouldn’t have occurred to him.

“Would there be harm if they did?”

“Surely,” she answers. To his complete shock, she shrugs off her cloak, folding it neatly and setting it on the ground beside Ghost. The beast whines happily at her, the sound deepening to a rumble when she gives him a scratch behind his ears before she straightens, a scratch that Jon feels with a thrill of pleasure deep in his own belly. That pleasure grows as he lets himself understand what she’s about. A sense of dismay makes a game attempt to surface, but it’s quickly overwhelmed, and Jon knows he should feel far more guilt about that than he does.

“Sansa-”

“Would you turn me away, Jon?” Her steps are deliberate as she moves towards him, the hem of her skirts rustling against the tanned hides piled high over the frozen ground. “When I know you miss me as much as I do you? When I know you want me?” 

“As much as you want me?” he asks, scarcely able to breathe for how desperately he needs to hear her answer.

“You could not possibly want me as much as I want you,” she says, and despite her teasing tone, Jon hears the urgency in her voice, an urgency that matches what he feels in his gut.

Her gown is simpler than those he’s used to on her, a nod to the labor of travel and the roughness of the North. She unlaces it as she nears him, needing no maidservants to assist her. By the time she’s within Jon’s reach, it’s sliding down her arms and over her hips to puddle on the ground, given none of the care that she showed her cloak. She stands before him in woolen hose and a short woolen shift over long pantalets, a thoroughly sensible and Northern approach to undergarments. It makes Jon smile, despite the need he feels. That very ability to adapt is what allowed Sansa to survive.

“It’s too cold,” he says. “You’ll freeze.” She smiles, a world of knowledge in it.

“Then you must do something to keep me warm.”

He would think he’s dreaming when her mouth touches his. But no dream could feel this good, this right. His knees seem to dissolve, and he pulls her down with him, rolling her onto his piled furs and covering her body with his own and allowing himself to kiss her the way he’s longed to all these months.

It is all he could ever need, he thinks. He could do no more than kiss her forever and think it a life well spent. He very nearly protests when she pushes at his shoulders. The protest dies on his lips when she only smiles at him, her hands reaching for the laces at the bodice of her shift. He knows she’ll be even more beautiful than he remembers.

“Actually,” she says, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow as her fingers stall on the laces, “I can think of something better.”

“Better than you nude?” Jon asks with a choked laugh. “There’s no such thing.” Her smile turns sly, teasing.

“Do you remember our last night together?” she asks. “Do you remember what you did?” The memory of it flashes in Jon’s head as crystal clear as if it happened six hours ago rather than six months; Sansa spread across her bed like the most luxurious fur imaginable, her knees splayed wide, her cunt full and pink, wet from his mouth and from her desire. He’d spent hours between her thighs that night, a starving man at a banquet, until she’d laughed and squirmed away, her hands tucked between her legs as she rolled to her side and trembled in pleasure.

“I’ve dreamed of it every night since,” he says in something very close to a growl.

He’d thought he knew desire, but what he’d known before only seems a pale shadow when she blushes prettily but keeps her eyes on his and says, “So have I.” He shudders, his eyes losing their focus for a moment.

“Gods, Sansa.”

“It seems unfair that I never had a chance to return the favor.” Her hands drop from her bodice to his tunic. The meaning of her words registers with his body before his mind catches up; impossibly, he grows even harder, something embarrassingly like a whimper escaping his lips. More swiftly than he thought possible, she wriggles out from under him and urges him to sit up, pulling at his tunic until she can yank it up and over his head. The coolness of the air is a shock on his overheated skin. _Please,_ something in his mind begs. Please, touch me, I need your hands. Almost as if she hears him, she sets both hands on his chest, her fingers flexing until he feels the bite of her nails. They score parallel tracks down his belly until she reaches the waistband of his breeches.

“Sansa,” he says, desperate to stop her, desperate to never stop again, to touch her and be touched by her every moment of their lives.

“I may not have been a Lannister for long,” she says, her deft fingers already unlacing the placket of his breeches and slipping inside to steal his breath, “but I have nonetheless learned to always pay my debts.”

He couldn’t stop her even if he wanted to. It seems as if every muscle in his body has turned to liquid, every nerve has been incapacitated by the feel of her kissing her way down his throat and chest, even as her hands work at his breeches, wrestling them out from beneath his hips and pulling them down roughly, the hasty scrape of her nails on his thighs a painfully arousing contrast to the languor of her mouth on its leisurely path down his body.

“You really will freeze,” he murmurs, amazed that he has the presence of mind to think of such things when her tongue is testing him delicately, making tiny laps at first like a kitten with a saucer of milk, and then growing bolder, lingering and flicking and tasting. He manages to snag the edge of the furs, pulling them around her shoulders. Seized by tenderness, he gathers her hair with both hands, pulling it free and draping it over the furs in a shining cape. She peeks up at him, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock. He moans, nearly as stirred by the sweet picture she makes as he is by her hand and mouth on him. Her soft smile turns nearly wicked, and she tightens her hand, her thumb making almost absent circles that could soon drive him mad.

“Your men, Lord Commander,” she says. “They’re just outside. You must be quiet.”

Jon makes a sound that as much a laugh as a groan. “Minx.”

“Do you remember the sounds I made when you loved me with your mouth?” she asks, voice husky now, her hand taking up a slow rhythm. Jon can only let out a ragged sound in response. “Mm,” she hums. “Yes, like that. I was so wanton and unladylike, yet I couldn’t help myself. Your mouth on me felt so good. Better than anything else I’ve ever felt. What sort of noises will you make for me, I wonder?”

“You’ll be the death of me,” Jon gasps.

“I’d rather make you feel alive,” she says, and takes him fully in her mouth.

He lasts longer than he ever would have thought he could. Every stroke of her tongue and caress of her lips threatens to unman him completely. When he’s on the brink of crisis, she allows him to pull her up his body, the taste of him on her mouth as he kisses her, his peak spilling against her belly. “Sansa,” he murmurs against her lips, “sweet Sansa.” He kisses her as if it’s the first time and the last.

“You know,” he says, after they’ve merely lain together for some time, her head nestled under his chin, the furs tucked around her shoulders. “It occurs to me that now I have to pay my debt to _you_.” She makes a soft, contented sound, turning her face to kiss the notch between his collarbones.

“Wouldn’t I simply have to pay _you_ back then?”

“I suppose you would,” Jon laughs. Sansa heaves a mock sigh, her kiss turning into a bite that has his cock stirring again.

"What a tragic cycle,” she says.

“Indeed,” Jon says, matching her sigh with his own. He rolls her to her back, settling easily – with such aching familiarity – into the cradle of her thighs. Her mouth drops open as he presses against her and he can’t resist rocking his hips gently, marveling at how her beauty only increases with the obvious pleasure on her face. She makes a sound of disappointment when he pulls away, but it turns into a satisfied purr when he slides his fingers beneath her pantalets, dragging them down with the catch of his thumbs. “Might as well get started now, hm?”

“Might as well,” she agrees, stretching like a pampered cat. Jon knows that however cold the night outside may be, in here it will be only warmth, a cocoon to keep the wind and the future at bay. It is not forever, not truly. But for this night, it is enough.


End file.
